The Songs of Winter
by corsairr
Summary: [Ulfric/F!Dragonborn - A rewrite of The World is Your Burden] Ulfric is crowned the High King of Skyrim and the Dragonborn has put an end to the World-Eater, but this war is far from over. Forces of evil and forces of the heart only scratch the surface of the dark path winding ahead of High King Ulfric Stormcloak and Dragonborn Torbbi Stormblade.


On this day, Solitude was not the picturesque of Imperial beauty that it had made itself into.

On this day, Solitude was a dancefloor with the fury of battle as its entertainers. Bloodied mounds of corpses in red-and-bronze mail littered the streets, palms opened as if holding the hilt of their swords in some morbid, ghostly way. Upon the sky that had gone black with night, thick flumes of black smoke drifted from the fires that burned down flimsy wooden barricades. The solid stone of some buildings were rocked loose by the flaming boulders trebucheted into the city. Men and women fought in darkened streets with bloodied weapons, the sounds of battle a cacophony and dance that Torbbi Stormblade knew well.

"Press forward!" she commanded, jutting her sword into the air to heed her unit. Dawnbreaker set the darkness around them alight, looking more like a golden scepter than a weapon capable of wreaking insurmountable carnage.

Bellows of war cries sounded above the thrumming of war drums and the clash of steel on steel as a hundred men rushed forward, funneling around Torbbi into the city. They were blurs of blue leathers and brown furs, the white bear's head of a sigil etched proud into the cloaks that billowed behind them.

They were outnumbered. This, Torbbi knew before they had even neared the city to charge. Imperial numbers entwined with Stormcloaks, gleaming swords dicing through the air like so many magpies. Shields met shields and the mounds of corpses grew in girth. Torbbi joined her men at the head. Dawnbreaker was a golden mist as it arced through the air and cut through the man in red in front of her, dead before he could switch his bow for a sword to defend himself with. Torbbi rounded and her shield caught the oncoming blow of a greatsword. She swung her sword around her shield, into the soldier's gut - that tender spot on a man's side that a breastplate can't protect, lest he sacrifice his mobility.

The Stormcloak to her left roared with the fury of battle, taking the hill as he barged his shield into one of the Imperials before they could strike a Stormcloak from behind. His sword sunk deep into the Imperial's neck and he yanked it free, whirling to offer a wide grin at Torbbi as she picked off another Imperial. "Dragonborn!" growled Ralof. "Sweating yet?"

"Glad to see you got off your mother's teat to join us, Ralof," she huffed with a crooked smile, pummeling her shield into an Imperial charging at her. The man stumbled, toppled over, his heavy steel armor clattering noisily with the fall. Torbbi dug the tip of Dawnbreaker into the knot in his neck. As blood fountained from the wound, he drew his last spluttering breath, and she moved.

Ralof cackled, joining her side. His axes were unpredictable twins as they lacerated his enemies. "And where's the god of the hour?"

Torbbi's ebony shield deflected the blows of the greatsword she was dancing with. The flurry of attacks beat like a mallet upon a drum, but she dug her heels into the ground that had gone slick with gore and held her position, waiting for the warrior to tire before lashing out with Dawnbreaker. Truthfully, she had not seen Ulfric since the beginning of the battle, but this did not seed her with any undue worry.

"You'll hear him," she said to Ralof matter-of-factly, finally bringing Dawnbreaker around to slice the warrior's neck just as he was taking a brief pause in his onslaught. Three breaths on that one before he, too, joined his brethren in their early graves.

They'd breached the portcullis into Solitude. The Imperials were beginning to panic, their movements becoming choppier, more influenced by that deadly sort of adrenaline that was born out of a desperation to survive the battle rather than win it. They dispersed through the streets like a flock of frightened birds as the Stormcloaks flooded into their domain, high on their tails. Chaos was imminent. Torbbi lost Ralof somewhere in the thick of battle as she fought, but she retained confidence that he was fine. His presence was replaced with the growls and roars and thunderous blows of Galmar Stone-Fist, whose name was not mere formality.

Where Galmar fought, Ulfric was never far behind. The ground began to quake as the voice of thunder cut through the clash and prattle of the fighting. "_Fus_!" The voice of dragons set a tremor in the earth, causing several men in red armor to be hurled into the cobblestone walls of the battlements. Across the perimeter, there he stood, an axe in each hand, his fur-trimmed robes adorned with chainmail and steel armor pieces. Tattered dirty blonde hair hung free around his shoulders, strands of it being picked up by the force of his Voice.

Torbbi was upon him in moments. She cut through the Imperials beginning to surround Ulfric like they were pieces of wet parchment paper, bashing her shield into heads, slicing flesh with her sword, kicking out ankles with greaved feet.

"Forward, men!" Ulfric commanded, his gruff, orotund voice returning to its normalcy but retaining the strength of the dragon behind it.

Invigorated, the Stormcloaks heeded his call, pressing further into the city. The Jarl's courtyard was upon them, blocked off with an iron portcullis. The battlements were manned with archers whose arrows hailed down upon the Stormcloak ranks amassing the area. Flaming arrows darted through the sky, finding homes in the hearts of the men in blue below.

"Tullius!" Ulfric growled, voice calling out above the clamor. "Face me, coward! Raise the portcullis or I will break it down!"

"Aim for the Dragonborn!" Tullius barked.

Torbbi's glare shot up, bright yellow eyes piercing the gaze of the Imperial General for only a split second's worth of a confrontation before she had to yank her shield up to block her head from the onslaught of arrows. Stormcloak soldiers began crowding around her as Ulfric cried out for them to form a shield wall. Bodies shoved around her and darkness overtook them as shields were raised to from a make-shift ceiling over their heads. Arrows thumped like exclamation points against them, but held strong.

The sweat and smell of death and blood was overwhelming. Torbbi would be the last to admit it, but tight spaces set her stomach turning. She growled in frustration and, a panic beginning to boil in her, began tunneling her way out of the bodies, shoving past them with strong, armored forearms. Her plaited platinum blonde tresses were wet with her own sweat, a few stray strands plastered to the skin of her face and neck. The black coal forming a band across her eyes was smeared and streaked with the grime she'd accumulated from being sprayed with so much blood. She had to get out. She felt dirty, flustered, overwhelmingly hot.

She shoved herself a path free of the clustered bodies, emerging into the cool, open night air at the foot of the portcullis. Tullius's hand shot into the air to signal his archers to pause, eyes narrowing as if he was curious of what she intended to do. Torbbi's breath of relief was immediately followed with her glare sharpening and hardening to steel, darting up to the General's.

Breaths coming labored, she slammed her shield into the ground, resting a palm on the edge of it. She squared her shoulders, inhaled deep the ancient history that surrounded this blackened place, yellow wolf's blood eyes glued to their target.

Her mouth opened. _"O-dah-viing!" _

Her voice shook the battlements, rattled the portcullis and set many of the archers perched on the battlements to their rears. Mere seconds later, a roar sounded in the high distance as a black, winged silhouette began to dart in and out of its shroud of clouds in the sky. Tullius broke his stare with Torbbi as he looked around, some semblance of horror dawning on his expression. His archers were clambering to their feet, gazes going to the skies.

"Dragon!"

That first hiss of terrible confirmation was all it took to set off a sea of turmoil.

"Get back," Torbbi commanded, hoisting her shield up and beginning to back away from the portcullis. "Get back!"

The shield wall dispersed as the Stormcloak forces retreated. Ahead, the winged profile dived for the courtyard. Bronze scales gleamed under the moonlight as it swept past the Stormcloak army, casting a gust of wind that sent some of the men stumbling - not Torbbi. She watched with eyes of iron as Odahviing's jaws parted, coming from it a beautiful and terrible gift, tendrils of blazing hot flames setting the battlements afire. The Imperials screamed and hollered, jumping from the battlements rather than risk being taken by the fires, but it was a futile effort. Odahviing roared, massive wings beating against the sky, turning a still night breezy.

"Retreat!" Tullis cried, clenching the hilt of his sword tight as he made a run for the stairs leading off the portcullis's battlements. "RETREAT!"

Torbbi's eyes followed the dragon as it let loose upon the city another bout of fire-breath. Flames took over the roads like blankets, crackling noisily as the bodies of the Imperials fed its girth. Their screams were short-lived, some attempting to run while others collapsed on impact, clawing desperately at the spots on their bodies that had been enveloped in the lethal orange-and-gold fires.

It took only seconds for the courtyard to clear.

"By the Nine," Ralof breathed, coming to Torbbi's side. His lips were parted in awe, face set aglow with the reflection of the flames.

Ulfric was right behind him, brow furrowed in what could have been denial or horror or both.

Odahviing swooped into the courtyard and reemerged on the other side of the portcullis, slamming through it with the force of a hurricane, heralded in by a funnel of fire. Molten iron spilled into the cracks of the cobblestone, wooden splinters smattering the army. They did not stand on ceremony.

"Hold the courtyard!" Ulfric screamed. "Come on. We go for Tullius." He ushered for Galmar and Torbbi to join him, moving towards the doors leading into the undercroft of the Blue Palace. Imperial reinforcements were flooding into the courtyard behind them, but they resigned to the fact that cutting off the dragon's head rendered its body useless.

Ulfric kicked in the door and it splintered down the middle, shattering into a pile of debris at the floor. The trio filed into the dimly-lit chamber.

"Get back, General!"

Rikke was a familiar face. She held out an arm to yank Tullius behind her, knees bent and sword readied in a way that indicated she was ready to die for this cause.

"Secure the door," Ulfric barked, and Galmar moved to shove a tall, rectangular display case over the ruined doorway.

It was a modest room, but tainted with Imperial influence all the same. The bejeweled trinkets and golden statuettes littering the desks situated around the room were testimony to what the Empire truly cared about. In the center, the drawing table was messied, pawns knocked over and map wrinkled and stained with ink droplets. Inside the castle, the quiet was eerie and foreign to Torbbi's ears, having been in the thick of a cacophonous battle for hours, and their voices echoed off the stone walls. Fighting could still be heard outside, the muffled roaring of the dragon, but it was all like a foggy dream.

Years, they had braced for this day, this moment. Torbbi's heart was a drum beating against her chest as she tightened her grip on the hilt of Dawnbreaker. She was not even a native to Skyrim, and only recently did she ascribe to their pantheon, but still it felt personal. Still, Tullius's dull, battle-hardened glare filled her with a fury that ran hot through her dragon's blood. That cowed man, hiding behind his Legate. It was a temerity that beckoned Torbbi to fly into a frenzy. He would prosecute a people he did not even know, did not even understand, and his existence was an existence defined by the lives he took and the blood he spilled.

No more.

"Ulfric. Stop." Rikke was a tall, imposing woman of broad, tense shoulders and a girth to be reckoned with beneath her scratched Imperial armor. Her stance, Torbbi noted, was practiced, knees bent at just the right angle to ensure her legs didn't lock before she lunged in a hopeless attempt to defend her Empire.

But there was sadness in her gaze, too, buried beneath the anger, the hurt, the courage. Perhaps regret, too, but this was buried so deep it could only be concluded by the frown etched into her lips as her eyes passed between the three assailants circling her.

Ulfric's fingers twitched against the hilt of his axes, as if a part of him wanted to set them down, too. "Stop what?" he retorted. "Taking Skyrim back from those who would leave her to rot? You were there with us. You saw it. The day the Empire signed that treaty was the day the Empire died. It is weak, obsolete. Look at how far we've come and with so little. Put down your blade, Rikke."

"We need the Empire, Ulfric," she exclaimed, tone turning into more plea than demand. "Without it, Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion. Are you so foolish that you would let it?"

"When we're done rooting out Imperial influence here," Ulfric decreed, taking a step forward as Rikke took a step back, "Then we will take our war to the Aldmeri Dominion. Skyrim will never be threatened again with this prattle."

"Stand aside, woman," Galmar input, slamming a fist into the table that rocked it and sent several more pawns toppling over. Rikke pivoted, blade turning on Galmar as she hissed warningly. "We've come for the General."

"He has given up. But I have not."

Torbbi's eyes narrowed on her. She was wrong. Yet she knew she would die and still her spine held iron as she faced them, and despite the sudden tremor in her fingers, her hand did not falter from where it gripped her blade.

"Rikke, go," Ulfric demanded, waving his sword towards the door. "You're free to leave."

"I am also free to stay and fight for what I believe," she growled.

Ulfric paused, then lower, "You're also free to die for it."

The Legate whirled her sword, slamming the tip of it into the ground. Her hand rested atop the hilt like it was a cane. "This is what you wanted?" she exclaimed. "Shield brothers and sisters killing each other? Families torn apart? This is the Skyrim you wanted, Ulfric? No. That is not the Skyrim I want to live in. If I die here, I make my stand here." She grabbed her sword and whirled it. "Talos preserve us."

Tullius's sheath shrieked as he drew his blade from it. Torbbi flourished her sword at the General as Galmar and Ulfric danced with Legate Rikke, axes and greatsword against sword and shield. Torbbi raised her shield to parry Tullius's initial blow. He backed away on nimble feet, sidestepping as she moved in to hook her blade into him. She grunted as he thrust his shield at her, sliding back on her heels and digging in hard to the ground to catch herself before she stumbled.

Her weight served her well. She was bigger than Tullius, taller by a head with significantly wider hips and muscle that showed through the thin fabric between her breastplate and groinplate. She rounded her shield, grasping it hard on her forearm, and shoved into him, pushing forward with all of her weight as she drove him backwards into the table. He yelped as he toppled into it, sending the remaining trinkets on it scattering. He rolled out of the way just in time to dodge Dawnbreaker coming down at him.

Beside her, Legate Rikke was making Ulfric and Galmar sweat. She fought with her back close to the wall, using it to protect her flank, while her shield threatened Galmar as he circled around her for an opening and her sword danced against Ulfric's axes. Tullius regained his footing and huffed, wailing as he moved back in on Torbbi. Whatever personal vendetta he had against her ran hot as he shouldered into her with his shield, bringing his sword around in an arc. It slammed against Dawnbreaker and a crack spread down the middle of his steel blade. Panic beseeched Tullius's eyes and there was a brief pause of eye contact between him and the Dragonborn, the calm before the storm.

She didn't give him time to process. She dropped her shield and took Dawnbreaker in both hands, plunging it so hard and deep into the Imperial that his armor split. Blood spilled from his gut, down the blade like rivulets of water, soaking Torbbi's hands. She lifted him off the ground, digging Dawnbreaker deeper into him, crying with strength and exhaustion and victory as she watched his eyes for that final gleam of life.

He went limp and she yanked her blade free. Across from her, Ulfric's axe was hooking into Rikke's throat, and the woman, too, went limp as blood spurted from her throat. Ulfric's breaths came labored as he slowly lowered his axes. Weary, pale blue eyes turned over his shoulder, meeting the bright yellow of Torbbi's, and his shoulders slacked at the contact.

"She didn't have to die," he uttered.

"Foolish woman," Galmar agreed, shaking his head.

"Come on. We have an army to address."

Torbbi stepped over the General's gasping body on her way out. Galmar shoved the display case out of their way, and they stepped into the carnage that had become the courtyard of Castle Dour. Flames licked at the walls in a deadly dance that had black clouds of smog settling over the city. The smell was an assault on Torbbi's nostrils, heavy with the sour scent of burning flesh and metal. She looked to the sky, eyes searching it for the dragon she had called upon, but he was gone, leaving behind a desecrated army and a victorious army. In this war, these were the only two viable options.

The Stormcloaks gathering around the courtyard were covered in blood and grime, their leathers scratched and ripped, mail dented, swords dripping thick, red ichor over the grooves. Their faces were dismal and weary, but there was hope, too, the indefinite sort that came with a terrible age ended.

Ulfric sheathed his axes, stepping forward on leather fur-trimmed boots. His calculating gaze scanned over the faces looking to him for guidance. He squared his shoulders, breathing deep.

"This is it, men," he called. "We've made this city ours. We came to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our brothers. Those who have fallen, and those still holding the line. On this day, our enemy witnessed the fullness of our determination, the true depth of our anger and the exalted righteousness of our cause. The Nine are watching. The spirits of our ancestors are stirring. And the men under stars yet to dawn will be defined by what we did here today. Fear neither pain, nor darkness."

Sounds of hilts beating against shields rang out. "For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their heads, and courage in their hearts!" Ulfric ended. The beating grew louder and was joined by the victorious cries of the soldiers, so weak with relief that they didn't mind how ridiculous they looked.

"The age of oppression has come to an end," said their leader. "Now we look ahead, to the horizon, where the sacrifices our people made will be put to worth."


End file.
